


Immunity

by EmeryldLuk



Category: Original Work
Genre: Climate Change, Criminal by choice, Dark and Darker, Deadly with a knife, Gen, Inspired by The Walking Dead, Martial Law - Freeform, Military, Minority presence, Original work - Freeform, People of Color, Prison, Science Fiction, Survivors, The Future is terrible, Tragedy, Zombie Apocalpyse, prison break - Freeform, virus outbreak
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 07:56:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17679464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeryldLuk/pseuds/EmeryldLuk
Summary: I am Aviendha Solomon. Once upon a time I was your average cute Southern girl with an average single dad and an average life. But my world changed in a single night and I've never been average or cute since.The South is gone, due to a biological attack that set the world at war, and now we're on our own in the land we once called home. And we WILL kill to survive. Trust me, I should know. I've done plenty.





	Immunity

**Author's Note:**

> Immunity was inspired by writing a Walking Dead fanfic that never got very far. I had an OC, then named Miriam, that I was trying to work into the story and ended up focusing a little too much on her back story, thus how Immunity was born.

August 23, 2049 somewhere south of what used to be Kansas.

Nothing remained of the lush grasslands. Some trees spotted the desert waste land, but only sturdy trees and cacti could survive the dry air. The land still looked green from a distance, but from up close and personal, all of it was brush and twigs spotting needle like leaves.

This was not a recent occurrence, nor had it been that way for long, no matter how anyone living in that time might feel. Years of ignoring the changing climates and growing corporate power had led to acres and acres of fertile farmland turning to dust before I was ever born.

No one lives around here anymore. No one normal at least. Just us and the dead, or, those-that-should-be-dead I should say. But according to the government, no one lives on this side of the wall.

They built it early on in the crisis. Said it was for the safety of survivors, but they trapped everyone inside: dead, living, insane, helpless. Now I keep an eye on the gate every morning. Not because they come in, but because they like to shovel more of the not-so-dead in when they catch them.

I like to watch from one of the abandoned farmhouse collectives. I sit on the edge of the crumbling barn roof and peer through binoculars at the distant metal fence two stories high.

Sometimes the dead wander by, but so long as I don't move, they pass without noticing. Sometimes I wonder how dead they really are, with the way they walk like they're alive, and still reacting to sounds and sights and smells like any other human.

I pulled up my scarf as the wind tossed dust and dirt into the air. A raven took flight from the nearest tree with a warning cry. I looked down and saw a lone figure dressed in dirty farmer's clothes, with a red baseball cap pulled down over his face at an angle. He looked around in a lazy fashion, not really taking in anything. I checked for the knife that was always on my belt. The leather hilt was worn smooth from my rough callused hands.

A screeching noise could be heard very faintly from a mile away. I put the binoculars back up to my eyes and focused in on the gate. Barbed wire and turret guns topped the massive steel structure that now geared into motion. The paneled construct rolled upward, allowing several trucks and two tanks through.

I jumped to my feet, balancing perfectly on the edge of the tile roof. From under my sun faded, dusty brown poncho, I drew out a whistle. Instead of using it right away, I monitored the caravan. Guns blazed, taking out a pack of six or so dead in their path. The gate screeched closed as the last truck passed.

The trucks rolled through the terrain, crushing bushes and smaller plants. Upon seeing the vehicles turn in my direction, I pushed the binoculars into the leather laptop bag I carried and jumped.

I rolled into a run, bag thumping against my ribs until I got the second strap over my other arm. The hood of my poncho flapped free, slipping down around my thick black braids decorated with strings of wooden beads and feathers.

One of the dead stumbled out at me, but I moved too fast, already skidding around the well and leaping the broken down cattle fence. Buried in the folds of my poncho and scarf, my goggles took a moment to  pull out and snap on.

I zigzagged through a field of cacti, needles tearing into my pants without much damage. My breath came evenly, cautiously measured with every second I counted.

Engines roared. I glanced over my shoulder only for a second. Long enough to see the trucks rounding the farm house a quarter mile away.

I pushed faster, my legs burning as I ducked under the branches of a Joshua tree. I could see the ridge ahead, growing closer.

The smell of diesel exhaust burned my nostrils. I clamped my scarf to my face, trying to push the horrid stench away.

Bullets sprayed the ground in front of me. My leg crumpled, a spike of pain rising from my thigh. I rolled, failing to get back to my feet and falling to the side.

Blood flowed over my leg, dripping onto the dirt. A spine from one of the many smaller plants pricked my hand. I gasped.

The trucks rumbled up in a semi-circle around me, the tanks staying back. I turned and forced my leg to support my weight. The ridge was only just out of reach.

More gunfire. I yelled this time when the bullets tore through my other leg and my right shoulder.

"Watch your aim!" I heard someone bark. The trucks ground to a stop, bringing the growing dust cloud to a stop. I rolled over and counted well over two dozen armed soldiers in desert camouflage.

I pulled up the whistle and blew three short bursts and one long note. One of the soldiers fired once. His shot grazed the corner of my goggles, breaking the clasp.

"Cooperate, and you will be spared!"

I grunted, throwing away the broken headgear.

The man to approach held his handgun at his side. Several patches adorned his chest on both sides.

"Are there more of you?"

I said nothing, pushing with my elbows away from him.

He stomped on my chest with one boot and pointed the gun at my face. "Where are they?"

I stared up at him, stubbornly unfazed by the looming death threat. He met my eyes and grimaced.

"Fuck, like being in Afghanistan all over." He stepped back, holstering his weapon. "Harrison, Walters, cuff her and get her back to the center. The rest of you spread out. There's bound to be more nearby."

I reached for my knife. One shot hit my arm, a second grazed my ribs, the third bounced off the ground and went into my back. The rest sprayed the ground around me.

"Hold your fire!" The man commanded. I slumped, fighting to stay conscious. He took the knife from my belt and moved away.

"Harrison, now!"

One of the many nearly indistinguishable soldiers moved forward, a second on his heels. I squinted, my vision blurring.

I gave it one futile pull when the first hand touched my arm, but his partner smashed my face in with the stock of his rifle. My head spun, blood loss combining with the concussion.

Harrison and Walters slapped a pair of white cuffs on my wrists. I would have looked for where the others were heading off to, trailing dust, but I could hardly keep my eyes open.

The last thing I felt before passing out was the grip of both men dragging me across to one of the trucks.

 

August, something, 2049, somewhere not where I want to be.

 

White. White, Static, and Lightning. The ceiling light glared down on me when I opened my eyes, reflecting over and over on the white floor and white walls. A kind of soft buzzing noise seemed to come from everywhere, emanating from nowhere at the same time. The first move caused lightning to rush through my veins, pulling my knees in toward my chest and my arms to my head.

Everything hurt, or it should have. I felt almost numb in a way I couldn't quite place. A memory of something far away.

I tried to breathe and found I could without problem. I pulled the white cotton shirt from my chest to see a gauze patch on my shoulder. I found another on my side.

I groaned, slowly sitting up. My boots and socks were gone. Under the cotton pants someone had put on me I could feel more bandages over where I knew I had been shot.

The buzzing grew louder. I heard a popping sound and then a voice from somewhere overhead.

"Good morning. How are you feeling?"

I froze, eyes darting around for the speaker.

"Our apologies for the rough treatment. The military personel have been reprimanded for their conduct. Can you tell us your name?"

I spotted four golf ball sized black spots, one in each of the corners. Each one played the same sounds, making the voice seemingly without source.

I slowly got up, unsure of how well my legs might support me.

"My name is Adam. You are currently being held in a quarantine facility dedicated to studying the Calamity. We had you brought here for both yours and our safety. We've never seen anyone survive long term exposure before."

I flexed, testing the movement of every muscle. The bullet wounds ached a little, but whatever pain killer they had me on kept it to a dull feeling no more than a hard workout.

"How are you feeling?" The voice, Adam, asked again. I flipped off the cameras.

"Good, I'd like to send someone in to run some tests. A simple physical exam."

I looked around, wondering where the mythical door was. After a minute, part of the seamless wall moved outward and slid to the left. I took a step back, clenching a fist behind my back.

"Please relax," Adam said. "She will not hurt you."

A japanese-american woman of slim build walked through the opening, a tray in her hands. From across the room, I recognized a stethoscope and syringes. The rest of the tools looked to strange to be anything I knew of.

"Hello," She said with a cautious smile. "May I?"

Taking my silence for agreement, she moved into the room. Before the door closed, I saw a tactile screen and keyboard in what might have been an ante chamber.

A panel of the wall folded, making a small table for her to put her tray on. The panel next to it folded out into the shape of a cot. The woman motioned for me to sit.

I reached out with a hand and touched the wall. The smoothness of the surface gave no further information.

"Have you never seen a tactile wall?" The woman asked, her voice even. She picked up the stethoscope. "If you sit, I can get this done quickly."

I nervously sat down, surprised when I didn't slide right off the makeshift cot. She smiled again and touched the stethoscope to my chest.

"Breathe deep?" She moved it to my back. I took two deep breaths and then she put it down.

"My name is Amaia. What's your name?" She picked up a thin tube with a flared end and used it to check my ears. I flinched away when she touched my chin.

"Sorry. May I have your hand?"

When I frowned, she held up two of the devices, one of which I saw was a blood pressure reader. I held out my left hand. She clamped both onto one finger each and made a note on her paper.

When both clips beeped, she noted the numbers and took them off. She traded them for the syringe.

"We need to take a blood sample for Calamity testing. You understand?"

I knocked the needle away, sending it into the wall with a clatter. Amaia pulled away,

"It's okay, we can do it tomorrow," she said with a confidence that ground at my bones.

She picked up her tray. The door opened, and she left. When she did, the cot and table flattened back into the wall, leaving me with nothing but the broken syringe.

 

The same things happened every day. Adam greeted me when I woke up, asked me about my dreams, and informed me that Amaia would be coming in to check my vitals. The first meal was served shortly after that via a revolving section of the wall. It was always the same flavorless oatmeal with raisins and a kid's juice box.

When I think about it, I'm not sure how many days have passed. The lights are only off when Adam informs me it's night time after the third meal of the day. The whole situation is why I try not to think about it. However, there isn't much else to think about.

I never let Amaia take blood samples. After the first time she would ask before picking up the syringe, but she always brought it up and that was when I walked away.

There would be attempts at chatting by Adam. I never answered. I never would. Not that I couldn't, I just had been through too much to start being friendly to people that had me locked up for "my safety". Hah! I've heard that before. Way too many times. I won't go into that. I won't.

There's nothing like time in isolation to get the mental gears moving. Being alone makes one thing about everything that isn't there; the things that got one there and the reasons to get out.

I wasn't always so angsty as the old folks say. No, I can still remember being a bright and happy college student with a so-called future. Not that it lasted long.


End file.
